Poems of Passion/A Sculptor

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts Chisel and hammer to the block at hand, Before my half-formed character I stand And ply the shining tools of mental gifts. I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace The angles of ill-temper.

And no trace Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride. Chip after chip must fall from vain desires, And the sharp corners of my discontent Be rounded into symmetry, and lent Great harmony by faith that never tires. Unfinished still, I must toil on and on, Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."